Culture Shock in the 1960's

I am not much of a mathematician. That is a fact. So let me ask you what is the answer to this advanced problem?

8 - 7 = ?

I am informed by a reliable source that the answer to this puzzler is one. And in the math world that would be right. But in my world brought on many changes. I passed the summer of 1965 by going to summer school in the mornings to make up for my inability to pass seventh grade math. At first I was ashamed as I went to summer school that year. But then I started understanding some of these obscure concepts such as number lines, how to determine what angle a triangle was, you know, that sort of nonsense. After summer school was over my parents dropped the bomb on me and my siblings. Due to a major tuition increase we would be leaving the world of St. Joseph and St. Anne School and would be transferring to Nathan S. Davis Public School in the fall.  Please note that we were not asked if this was okay with us, we were just informed. 

At first this news disturbed me a bit. I would be leaving SJSA, the only home that I had known since the second grade. I would be leaving classmates that had accompanied me on my journey and I would be changing to another caravan to get me to the destination of High School. Then I thought that this could be a good thing. At SJSA I was always thought of as dumb and or lazy. The nuns lived in a closed society and their thoughts on the worth of a student had to be one of the points of discussion in the refectory at dinner time. By transferring I would be getting some good benefits: 

1. Anonymity - The teachers at this school will never had heard of me, I was never the subject of discussion around the table at any meal!  I would no longer be automatically considered dumb.
2. No more New Math - The nuns at SJSA were nothing if not progressive in their view of what a proper education should be. They embraced the "New Math" which I renamed the "New Mystery."  My friend Big Jim Boinski who attended Shields Public School said that they were being taught only ordinary arithmetic, you know, adding and subtracting, multiplying, and dividing. Hot Dog, that was for me. 
3. Clean Up Week I would be getting a whole week off in the spring - called clean up week. While my former classmates were slaving away at their studies, I would have a whole week of leisure. 
4. No More Bullies Since I was out of SJSA I would be leaving the bullies who tormented the "slower" kids. My slate would be clean and maybe, just maybe, I could shine and become one of the "in" crowd. 

So with some trepidation I started my new career at Nathan S. Davis School and left the nuns, the detentions, the bullies behind and boldly began my final year in grade school with the prize of high school just ten short months away!

That first day presented me with a good dose of culture shock. First, the classroom looked very old fashioned and had desks that were fastened to the floor. And the floor kind of creaked when you walked upon it, kind of like an old time hardware store. Shockingly, there was no crucifix on the wall, no pictures of the Holy Family, no reminders to pray, it was all so very secular and really a shock for this cradle Catholic boy.

The bell rang and all of the kids took their seats and the PA system announced that we would say the Pledge of Allegiance. We all stood and I almost made the sign of the cross, an understandable mistake for a boy who started each school day since first grade with prayer. In this new land, the sign of the cross was not needed.

My classmates were a typical lot of kids. But there was not a light blue shirt and a navy clip on tie in the whole classroom!  As a matter of fact, many of the kids were wearing bluejeans, which would get you the death penalty at SJSA because the school had never ever had bluejeans pass through the doors during the school week, it just wasn't done.

The teachers were ordinary men and women. They were not under vows of chastity, obedience, or poverty and appeared to like their jobs and had a healthy tolerance for the kids under their care. 

A lot of things happened this year. My grades got better, even in math. I did have to deal with some bullying, nothing that punching a kid in the nose wouldn't fix. I saw after school playground fights between George Pina who was in charge of ass kicking in the school and a hillbilly kid named Paul Ballard who for some reason could not keep his mouth shut when in the presence of George, and George was not one to accept insults lightly. His counseling sessions with Paul always ended up with someone having to help Paul up off the ground and to make sure he made it home without collapsing while crossing Pershing Avenue and becoming a hood ornament. 

I got over the culture shock of non-religious education, joined the patrol boys and once a week on Wednesday afternoon helped convoy the kids that signed up for CCD (religious education) to my old school SJSA.  It was kind of strange entering those walls again. Stranger still was I ended up sitting in my old seventh grade classroom,and I naturally made sure I sat in my old desk. I did not learn much that was new about being a Catholic that year. There was little that the nun could teach me that I had not heard before in grades KG through Seventh. But the walk broke up the week nicely and the nun that was teaching the class was one I had in sixth grade, Sister Margaret Jean, and she chose to not call on me when she asked the class a question. Some things don't change! 

My story about growing up on the southwest side of Chicago in the Brighton Park neighborhood contains a lot of humor, a number of lessons, a killer roller coaster, and a genuine flying nun and is available at at my publisher American Star  or at Amazon. com

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A Stroll Through St. Catherine's Cemetery

St. Catherine's Cemetery is an old Catholic cemetery in the outskirts of Chicago. As far as Catholic cemeteries go it is a very small one and has been around since about 1880. There isn't a lot of unoccupied space in it. There are a few family plots that are still awaiting a final resident or two to complete the family resting grounds intended use. It is interesting that there are buried here some people that you would classify as "boomers."  We are going to look at several of the people who when their life ended came here to this place to sleep in peace and await the resurrection. 

Close to the entrance we come upon the grave of John "Jack" Ryan, born 1948 died 1966. Jack's story can be repeated over fifty-eight thousand time. He was killed in Viet Nam while on a search and destroy mission. Nearby his grave are the graves of his mother and father. For all intents and purposes Jack's mother died in 1966 although her gravestone says 1980. She was never the same after Jack died. Jack's father was the strong one, at least in public. He cried himself to sleep more nights than he could count.  Jack was something of an oddity, he was a volunteer and he volunteered for the infantry. He believed in what the United States was trying to do in that divided country and was willing to put his life on the line for what he believed in. He was a sensitive boy in school, often the target of bullies because of his quiet nature. He had a spiritual side to him that guided his life and no one was going to force him to compromise his values. So he lies here today in sleep, forgotten to all but a hero never the less. His grave gives no indication of his military service. His parents turned down the government gravestone in favor of one with a religious inscription; "Good and Faithful Servant." 

Do you see just ahead the only mausoleum in this city of the dead. The gray granite bricks are almost covered by wildly growing ivy.  We look at the name over the door and it says "Sullivan."  This skyscraper among the monuments of this small cemetery is a centerpiece that speaks of opulence, wealth, and it also hides tragedy, betrayal, and violence.  William Sullivan is the only person occupying this mansion for the dead even though there is provision for three other family members. Now Bill is NOT a boomer. He is the father of a boomer.  His son ironically went by the same name as his dad with the addition of the title Junior.  Junior was a boomer child and Bill showered his son with whatever he wanted. Junior got used to getting everything he wanted without working for it.  In other words he was the worst kind of boomer child, a brat. When he reached his late teens, Juniors father realized he had created a monster. He tried bringing his son into the family business and was rewarded by his son embezzling ten thousand dollars. It was at this point that Bill cut his son off and put him on a very strict budget of five hundred dollars a month which was a mere fraction of what the boy was used to spending.  Junior wanted it all and plotted with his younger brother and sister to claim their inheritance by sending their Dad into the afterlife.  One day Dad came home and was greeted by a double shot of buckshot from his son's shot gun. The kids made up what they thought was a great story that would fool the cops, it didn't and the younger kids threw Junior under the bus by turning states evidence and William Junior was given a life without the possibility of parole in June of 1970 when he was just twenty-two years old.  The old man's estate went to the younger kids after their mother died but what goes around comes around. April, the wife of William was buried at another cemetery near her family. The younger sister bought herself a sports car and while high on drugs slammed it into a tree that refused to budge. The fact that she wasn't wearing a seat belt sealed her fate.  The younger brother went to Florida and settled in Key West. After squandering his share of the estate got involved in selling drugs and was shot to death by a rival drug dealer. He was buried in Florida. So that is the story of the Sullivan clan.  Sometimes being rich is more trouble than it is worth. 

Near the intersection of the two roads that crisscross the cemetery we come to the grave of a boomer who just died in 2015. Father Mark Solous was born in 1952 and from his earliest days he knew he had a vocation in the Church.  He went to Catholic schools all of his life, graduated with honors from all of the schools he attended. He was ordained in 1980 for the Diocese of Chicago and spent his life tending the flock in various parishes in Chicago and the suburbs. He was sent to parishes that were not rich. He always struggled to pay the bills and keep the lights and heat on. He also spent his life loving the people that he served. He was a tireless worker who often worked sixteen hours a day. He was always available to his parishioners, day or night.  Although he never complained he thought that after so many years of stellar service he should have received some sort of promotion. It was not to be. He worked under three different archbishops and although each of them was grateful for the hard work Mark did, they believed that he was well placed in parish life. Despite this silent disappointment, he continued to work mightily for the Church and it was like a cold slap in the face in 2013 when he was diagnosed with cancer.  Like everything else he did he fought the disease with his entire being.  In the end, wasted away to ninety six pounds he passed from this world to the next.  His family had a plot at St. Catherine's and it was here that hundreds of the people he served converged to pay their final respects to a man that they loved.  The Cardinal himself gave a stirring eulogy and tearfully said farewell to the priest who was an example of how the people of the Church should be served. 

Mark's neighbor is a boomer but she died while still a child boomer.  Born in 1950, Maria died in 1952 of childhood Leukemia. She was loved deeply by her parents who are buried on either side of her. I read her obituary which described her as "Our little angel whose smile disease could not defeat went home to be with Jesus on November 3, 1952."  The tears at this funeral were copious indeed. Her small white casket was lowered into the ground in the graveside service that was pretty much normal for the period. Mother and father watered the grave with water of their tears. Sometimes, the death of a child pulls a family apart. In this case, the faith of the Mother and Father held them together in a bond that could not be rent asunder. They went on to become parents to four other children, one of whom went on to be a Congressman.   

Let's rest under this tree, for the sun is hot and the day is long. Those that sleep here deserve their rest for they have been tested and are now under the care of God. Hundreds sleep here and they testify to the fragility of life. For as they are we will one day be. 

The above descriptions are based on real people and events but names have been changed and to my knowledge there is no St. Catherine's Cemetery in the outskirts of Chicago. Any resemblance to ancestors of your family is totally coincidental.